Training the Alpha (Foundry Boxing Gym Alphas #1)

Alex

It takes me all of ten seconds to realize that The Foundry Boxing Gym is a far cry from The Royal Conservatory of Ballet. Although I suppose that’s not a surprise.

The smell of worn leather, sweat, and the metallic tang of iron hits me immediately.

Instead of the wall-to-wall windows and mirrors I’m used to at the studios I’ve spent my life training in, I’m faced with walls of industrial, bare concrete that remind me of the warehouse I worked in for one miserable summer between graduating high school and starting my traineeship at the Conservatory nearly a decade ago.

The clientele isn’t too dissimilar from my old colleagues at the warehouse either—a gaggle of huge, sweaty alphas who look like they’re chomping at the bit for someone to look at them the wrong way so they can start a fight.

Not to mention the air in this place is dripping with enough testosterone and pheromones to knock out a small elephant.

Two alphas are sparring in the large boxing ring that dominates the centre of the gym, the fleshy, thudding sound of every jab bouncing off the gray walls along with the squeak of their boots against the canvas.

Heavy bags swing from the ceiling, their chain links rattling from the beams as bare-chested men batter them with blurred hands, glistening with sweat and exertion.

Okay, so maybe I could get used to this place, after all.

The strap of my well-worn sports bag cuts comfortably across my shoulder as I walk across the floor, and I don’t need to look around too hard to know there are plenty of eyes on me.

Alphas are territorial by nature, so it’s only natural for their hackles to raise when a new competitor walks into the den.

But I can feel the shift in the air when the looks turn from appraising to confused.

By all means, on paper I tick all the stereotypical ‘dominant alpha’ boxes; I’m six foot two, with lean, broad shoulders and the kind of hyper-defined muscle tone that can only be honed by a lifetime of brutal physical discipline. And I like to think I’m not bad looking on top of that.

But I’m also wearing the same clothes I wore for my ballet class this morning: a tank top that clings to the lithe lines of my torso and emphasises my collarbones, a loose wrapped knit over the top, and a pair of figure-hugging track pants over skin-tight leggings that don’t hide the raw power in my quads.

I’m also aware that my posture is far too elegant for someone who’s meant to be training for a fight.

Do I dress like someone who’s a little too confident in their physical appearance? Yes.

Is that going to make me stick out like a sore thumb in this gym? Almost definitely yes.

Do I give a flying fuck? Absolutely not.

“Can I help you?”

The gruff voice breaks through the ambient noise of the gym, and I turn to see a man stepping out of an office that’s tucked into one corner of the space.

He’s got a pen perched behind one ear, but he’s wearing athletic gear and looks like he was forged out of steel—as tall as me but more thickly muscled, his sharp jaw covered in a few days' worth of stubble that’s as dark as his eyes, which are currently fixed on me with a measured stare that contains less apprehension than everyone else in this place.

He’s got an aura of authority about him that piques my curiosity almost immediately.

I push down the flicker of interest that licks up my spine: not why you’re here, Alex.

“I’m here for the two o’clock gym induction,” I say smoothly, raising my voice slightly to carry over the sound of whooshing skipping ropes.

I offer him a slow, deliberate smile, because apparently I’m incapable of not flirting even when I’m in the last place on earth where it’s going to be reciprocated. “Name’s Alex Volkov.”

The man extends a hand, shakes mine firmly, and tips his head towards the office. “Marcus,” he grunts. “Follow me, Alex.”

The brass plaque on the desk he sits behind reads Marcus Callahan, Co-Owner/Head Trainer, and the dominant aura makes a lot more sense. Head honcho.

I sit opposite him, leaning back in the chair and taking in the sparsely decorated office.

Marcus’ desk is the busiest thing about the space, stacked with piles of thick, heavy books with titles like The Science of Strength, Principles of Kinesiology, and High Performance Sports Science for Athletes. So at least the guy knows his stuff.

His scent reaches my nose: a spicy blend of tobacco and amber that just screams I’m a big, strong alpha.

I wish I could say I’m turned off by that level of stereotypical alpha machismo—god knows I should be, after some of the shit I’ve had to put up with over the years—but unfortunately for me, I’m a sucker for it.

Which is exactly why my dating history is basically a series of hypermasculine car crashes.

“So, tell me about yourself, Alex. What brings you to The Foundry? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t look like someone who’s used to getting punched in the face.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I laugh airily. “No, I’m a ballet dancer. A principal at the Royal Conservatory, if that means anything to you.”

He grimaces. “Ballet isn't my strong suit, I’m afraid.”

“It means I’m really fucking good,” I smirk.

Marcus’ eyebrows travel up his forehead.

“I’m training for a particularly taxing role at the moment, and I want to build my explosive power and tighten up my core.

My artistic director recommended cross-training, and I thought a boxing gym would be… ” I glance around wryly. “Fun.”

“I expect it’ll be a little different from a ballet studio,” he says gruffly. “We don’t do pilates or pretty music or mirrors here.”

“Maybe you should.” I quirk an eyebrow. “I saw some pretty questionable form on some of the guys out there. Although I get the impression some of them might enjoy looking at themselves lifting weights in the mirror a little too much, if you catch my drift.”

He snorts a laugh, the gesture softening his features momentarily, and fuck, turns out he’s cute underneath that tough exterior. Just my luck. “You’re probably right. So what’s this role you’re training for? Anything I’d’ve heard of?”

“Probably not,” I say. “It’s called Creature, and I’m playing the titular role.”

He frowns. “You don’t look like you should be playing a creature.”

“Such a charmer, Marcus. Do you butter up all your new clients like this?”

His cheeks glow a bright shade of magenta again. “I just mean—you’re very human looking. You look like a human. Not a creature.” I cock my head, and he grabs the pen from behind his ear and brings it to his desk, even though there’s no paper to write on. “Any injuries I should know about?"

“I tore my Achilles early last year, but it’s been fully rehabbed. It doesn’t cause me problems as long as I don’t overstretch it.”

“Okay, we’ll keep an eye on it.”

“I can give you a full demonstration of my range of motion if you like,” I grin devilishly, because I can’t help myself when he’s looking at me so seriously. “I’m as flexible as you’d imagine.”

If the way his eyes darken is anything to go by, imagining is exactly what he’s doing right now. Interesting.

He clears his throat. “That won’t be necessary. Alright, let’s see what you can do, dancer.”

Marcus leads me back out to the gym, and I follow him closely.

He’s got a classic heavyweight build—all thick, broad shoulders that look like they could take the weight of a collapsing roof with no problems, and a low center of gravity.

But he’s also stiff. He walks with the rigid posture of a man who’s spent his entire life mired in the unique tension that comes from this type of intense, masculine alpha environment. I’ve seen it plenty of times before.

He stops at a relatively empty section of rubber mats near a tall pull-up frame.

“Alright,” he says, turning to face me and crossing his arms over his massive chest. His biceps bulge, forcing the fabric under his arms to bunch tightly.

If any of the other alphas currently throwing me side-eyes were standing in front of me, I’d think they were posturing, but Marcus doesn’t give me that impression.

There’s something easy-going about him that puts my guard down.

“I want to see your core stability and upper body strength before we get a pair of wraps on you. Toss your bag on the bench.”

I slide my bag off my shoulder and unbutton my track pants, stepping out of them to reveal the leggings I wear for dance practice underneath.

I could have brushed off any reactions he had to my shameless comments earlier as an entirely normal response to being flirted with by another alpha.

But the way Marcus’ eyes drop, travelling down the chiseled lines of my thighs, my calves, my crotch—yeah, that’s something else.

I know what it feels like to be eye-fucked, and this—the way his throat bobs in a slow swallow, the way the muscle flutters in his jaw as he tenses up—this is it.

“Dead hang on the bar,” Marcus grunts, tearing his eyes away and gesturing upward, clearly eager to get his eyes off my legs before anyone else notices. “Let’s see your shoulder mobility.”

“No problem,” I smile sweetly.

I walk up to the steel rig, look up, and leap.

I catch the steel bar perfectly, my body instantly locking into a rigid vertical line the second my fingers make contact with the metal, my shoulders preemptively bracing to take the strain.

I don’t just dangle like a dead weight; I engage my scapula, lifting my chest slightly, completely in control of every single muscle fiber from my wrists to my pointed toes.

Marcus prowls around me in a slow circle, and this time his eyes appraise the flex of my lats and the alignment of my spine with a trainer’s eye, although I like the attention all the same.

“Keep your core tight,” he says, his voice naturally deep. “And raise your legs. Slow. Ninety degrees. Hold it there.”